


"Conscience" is just another word for "Interloper"

by Hihoneyimdead



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-typical Elias Bullshit, Jonah Magnus is a bastard, Lots of Fucking Talking, Missing Scene, Not Beta Read, Possession, Spoilers: ep159, Tags Are Hard, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 03:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hihoneyimdead/pseuds/Hihoneyimdead
Summary: Elias Bouchard, when he was allowed to be Elias Bouchard, was terrified of ants. His mother was dead, his father was somewhere in Norway planning to bring the world to darkness, and his sister was with his grandmother up north where her burnout of a brother couldn’t get to her. No one would miss him.Except Gertrude. But she was, frankly, a bitch.





	"Conscience" is just another word for "Interloper"

**Author's Note:**

> hello! first work in this fandom! i love this shit (binged the whole thing over uhhh two weeks? three?) and fell in love with that bastard elias, damn his eyes, i'm unfortunately american and am going to die on thursday
> 
> editing is for people who can read

Approximately five minutes after his Archivist steps into the ever-fading mists of Peter Lukas’ shitty home away from home, Elias swears Jonah Magnus’ body twitches. 

“Oh, stop that,” he says.

_ "Make me,”  _ he can almost hear, a raspy little tinny voice not worth the strain its causing on Jonah Magnus’ nearly-non-existent vocal cords.  _ “Old man.” _

And Elias Bouchard is not an old man. He’s fifty-two, nothing more. Not old. Comfortably middle-aged. The grey may have taken over the ginger by this point, the freckles may have begun folding themselves among the wrinkles starting to blemish this cursed body’s skin, but the dark circles are genetic and the old-fashioned suits are a personal preference. Nothing more. Elias Bouchard is not an old man. Jonah Magnus is not an old man. 

_ “Old. Man.” _

Elias rolls his eyes. “Please.”

_ "Old! You’re fuckin’ old! Fuck you!” _

“Language, please, keep in mind who you’re addressing.”

_ “Like I could ever forget. Bastard. Bastard man. Asshole and a half. You feel like meatloaf!” _

Elias Bouchard fucking hates meatloaf. But Elias Bouchard isn’t alive, per se, he’s just a passenger. And a brat. Jonah Magnus, were he able to, would kick Elias Bouchard’s ass. For insubordination, of course, because what kind of victim doesn’t just stay dead and quiet? 

_ “You’re dead meat, asshole.” _

One that was in the middle of smoking five different kinds of weird leafy things when Former Director James Wright pulled him aside after an employee review and locked the two of them in the tunnels and pulled out a spoon and  _ smiled _ . And one that always complains at all possible times when the being currently known as Elias Bouchard deigns to check up on his own damned body. Brat. 

He sniffs and adjusts his cuffs, wrinkles his nose as something drips from the ceiling miles and years away and runs down the back of his neck, slimy and cold. Seven minutes, and still no Sight of his Archivist. Maybe a bit worrying. No, not worrying, because Jonathan Sims is unfortunately hardy. He’s like a cockroach, tiny and unwilling to just curl up and die. It should be useful. It’s just kind of...annoying. Because, like a cockroach, Jonathan Sims doesn’t shower, doesn’t see a need to shower, and is a disgusting little creature hardly worth the time their patron so graciously provides them. 

_ “Pot-fucking-kettle,”  _ says the fifty-two-year-old consciousness inhabiting the body of a long-cold corpse.  _ “You don’t even floss.” _

“I don’t need to floss,” says Elias. Then. “Shut up, brat.”

_ “Make me!” _

And Elias catches himself taking a step towards Jonah Magnus’ body before stopping and taking a few steps backwards. For good measure. Just in case the platform decides to crumble beneath the weight of a good couple decades’ worth of pain and bodies and memories and rust. Not because the original Elias Bouchard, despite being a total burnout with no future to speak of, is really fucking smart when he isn’t doped up. Damned philosophy majors, freaks of nature. Back in Jonah Magnus’ day, philosophers were jokes not to be taken seriously unless they were old bastards with beards as long as the distance in their eyes, not  _ children _ . 

Elias slides the knife back into his back pocket. Lord knows he doesn’t need that. Not down here. Not now. 

_ “What, scared?” _

“Of you? Please. Melanie King is more threatening than you.”

_ “She had a knife. Still probably has some, wherever she is. Don’t need eyes to kill, you know.” _

Elias does not, in fact, know, because every time he’s killed, he’s had eyes. Elias Bouchard pushed James Wright over the railing in this very room twenty-odd years ago. Elias Bouchard shot Gertrude Robinson a few short tunnels away five-odd years ago. Elias Bouchard beat Jurgen Leitner to death with a pipe three-odd years ago. Elias Bouchard, when he was Jonah Magnus, did much more to many more people. Elias Bouchard, when he was allowed to be Elias Bouchard, killed an ant when he was sixteen and drunk on life and his mother’s vodka and sobbed because he thought the ant was going to haunt him (and it did, and there are still ant traps Elias finds scattered around the Institute even after this long.)

Elias Bouchard, when he was allowed to be Elias Bouchard, was terrified of ants. His mother was dead, his father was somewhere in Norway planning to bring the world to darkness, and his sister was with his grandmother up north where her burnout of a brother couldn’t get to her. No one would miss him. 

Except Gertrude. But she was, frankly, a bitch. 

The body of Elias Bouchard, where it sits in its chair, is still as the unfortunately familiar sound of static reaches Jonah’s ears. Twenty minutes, and a human and a monster are going to come staggering out of that fog any moment now, and then Elias can leave and not hear that brat’s voice again. 

_ “Haven’t you ever heard of a conscience?”  _ asks what remains of Elias Bouchard. 

Jonathan Sims falls face-first onto the platform, hair frosted over. Martin Blackwood gingerly steps over him and crosses his arms, tilting his head down at Elias like he’s meant to be threatening. 

Elias smiles just a bit too wide, and Elias keeps blathering on about how romantic this all is, and Jonah’s Eye twitches as the Watcher’s Crown distinctly isn’t starting yet, and Jonah’s body sits still in its seat.

**Author's Note:**

> i always appreciate comments! god, elias/jonah fucking sucks! god, why does elias sound like a nice guy but actually is a dude with no blood who watches out from his tongue!


End file.
